They call him a chef, but that word’s too soft — too human — for what he truly is.

He doesn’t carry a sword. No waraxe. No ancient spear pulled from some tomb of forgotten kings. Just a knife. A kitchen knife – curved, gleaming, sharpened with the kind of obsession I’ve only seen in zealots.

And Zeus help me, he fights with it like it’s holy.

Not like a soldier. No, soldiers strike to kill. He prepares you – slices your rhythm, dices your resolve, serves your fear on a plate you never saw coming.

You don’t understand until you spend time with him. He speaks in flavours, but every sentence is a cut. He seasons his kills with his words, renders men down to base ingredients with nothing but a smirk. They say I’m timeless – that I’m eternal – but he makes time tender. He slow-cooks doubt. He sears hope on both sides until it’s gone.

He doesn’t waste a movement. Every strike is a recipe. Every step, measured. And when he gets close to his enemies – when that knife flashes under flickering light – I see it.

Anton Savor’s blade has never been for food.

It’s ritual. Devotion. Judgement. He wields that knife like it’s the only thing in the world that still tells the truth. I could fight monsters bigger than mountains, titans tougher than diamond, leviathans who would sooner smash me into the ground than give me the time of day – but him?

He is terrifying to behold, because he doesn’t kill out of hate.

He kills with care.

He told me, deep into Preservationist meetings, that hunger is the oldest language. That before we learned how to pray, before we realised that we dream, before we evolved into whatever we are now… we ate. And when the world ends it won’t go out screaming.

It’ll end with a slice. A clean one.

And part of me believed him.

But I didn’t cross deserts of dust just to become a dish on his final menu. He has been an honourable champion. We may have once aligned in what is right for Arcadia before Grimskull’s attack on me, but the powers that be have put us against each other this week, control of the kitchen up for grabs.

I’ll shatter his sharpening stone with the butt of my revolver. I’ll drive that sacred knife into the table he calls an altar. He is a master of the kitchen, yes – but I’ve always fought what comes after the feast.

He feeds on fear.

I starve it.

His championship reign will be gone soon – lost in the smoke of his last supper, in the scent of scorched rosemary and ruin. But the air will still hum with his blade. Not the steel itself, but with the intention. The purpose he used it with.

A knife remembers the hand that held it once it’s passed on.

Just like the championship will when I take it.

Anton, you’ve served a five-star meal in your time as champion, but it’s time for me to take the knife now, and craft the next big recipe for Arcadia to enjoy.

Bon Appetit.